


Loup Garou (don’t you know I’m a beast of a man?)

by CyanideBreathmint



Category: Deus Ex: Mankind Divided
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Biting, Collars, Consensual, Filth, Flogging, Hogtie, Leashes, Multi, Muzzled submissive, Post-Ending, Pure Smut, Rarepair, Riding Crop, Spoilers for one of the Mankind Divided endings, Strap-Ons, Very Mild Puppy Play, Voyeurism, come for the smut stay for the feels, filthy filth, kink instead of therapy, multiple dominants, not that MacReady can trust the team therapist, safe, safe sex, sane, spreader bar, unprotected sex between two fluid-bonded lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 09:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20794532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideBreathmint/pseuds/CyanideBreathmint
Summary: What happens when a dominant in a relationship has a health crisis that leaves them unable to discharge their responsibilities, kink-wise? They enlist help, that’s what, and that’s exactly what Jim Miller does.This fic is dedicated to a certain someone. You know who you are.Title taken from the Ed Harcourt song “Loup Garou”, which inspired most of this fic. The rest of it was inspired by Goldfrapp’s Strict Machine. You’re welcome.Content warning: BDSMContent warning: Flogging and whippingContent warning: Biting and muzzlingContent warning: unprotected sex between two fluid-bonded loversThis is not a content warning, but the nature of this fic may be a circumstantial spoiler for one of the two Mankind Divided stories. Of course, if you’re a Miller stan you probably already know what I’m alluding to.





	Loup Garou (don’t you know I’m a beast of a man?)

_It’s not like I haven’t done this before,_ Duncan MacReady thought to himself, as he flexed his forearms, testing the pull of his restraints as a delicious blend of fear and anticipation began to uncurl beneath his gut. It certainly wasn’t an unfamiliar situation, not when he had passed the infamous SERE training course out on Exmoor and spent too many years hunting terrorists, shedding blood and sweat alike for King and country. But he wasn’t in England, was not training, nor was he in the field. No, he was in a discreet sound-proofed room this time, its plain walls hidden with heavy velvet drapes that served to further muffle sound, and the restraints that held him were made of wood and leather and bright stainless steel.

This wasn’t his first time in this position either, laid out flat on his hard belly, his hips raised with a pillow, while his wrists were chained to the spreader bar holding his knees and feet apart. Droplets of moisture ran lightly down his scarred flanks, a cold sweat that came off his hide as one of the masked dominants in the room squeezed his blunt fingers gently to test his circulation, and then moved on, still out of his peripheral vision. 

It wasn’t as though he couldn’t stretch his neck to catch a glimpse of her, if he had wanted to, but he looked up instead, at the man seated before him on a broad couch, its corners scuffed with time and wear. The strong lighting overhead gleamed off a pair of patent-leather dress boots, their soles much-mended, and then bounced, more diffusely, off a pair of long, lean legs clad in wool flannel trousers. 

If MacReady craned his head upwards on his neck he could see past the sitter’s thighs to his torso, clad sensibly in a sleek black turtleneck, to the pale hand resting in his lap, the other curled loosely around the left armrest of the couch. Those hands were rough, callused in contrast to the polish of his dress, the hands of a fighter, not a dandy. And if MacReady held his gaze upwards, he could see just beneath the collar of the jumper, up the lapels of the coat the sitter wore, to glimpse the light bouncing off a dark green pocket square. 

But that was the limit of MacReady’s vision and his cervical articulation, and he could not hold the position despite his strength and endurance. It simply wasn’t a natural one for the human body, which was part of the point of this exercise. He was just too close. In return, almost as though the sitter were reading his thoughts, one of those polished dress boots slid further towards him, to caress his right cheek in a silent promise. 

MacReady knew what was expected of him. He pressed his plush lips to the smooth leather, letting his breath condense against it between kisses, and was rewarded with a soft “Good boy,” from the direction of the couch. Goosebumps shivered erect on the back of MacReady’s neck, down his arms and chest, and he felt the faint unheard scrape of the barbell in his cockhead against the soft pillow beneath him as his prick and nipples shivered suddenly erect. This wasn’t new, either, and he squirmed against his bonds, trying to arrange himself to a more satisfactory position as his erection pressed uncomfortably against his hip, unable to rise fully, trapped by his body weight against compressed goose-down, held in place by yielding fabric and clingy latex. 

A sharp tug reminded him of the collar tight around his neck, clammy with his sweat as its D-ring clattered against the hardwood panelling beneath him, yanked briefly upwards on a leash that led back to the sitter’s right hand. MacReady stopped moving immediately, his belly tensing in a blend of nerves and arousal before a bright line of pain seared itself hot across the muscular curve of his arse. He wasn’t sure which dominant it was, the man or the woman, but one of them had read his Master’s disapproval and doled out a warning lash, just to remind him of his place. 

MacReady bit down on his lip against the pain, trembling in response as it vibrated against his taut nerves, and then shivered as it receded, leaving his skin smarting and hot. He could almost see it in his mind's eye, the red welt rising up on his skin, and he fought the urge to grind the underside of his cock up against the pillow beneath him. Further movement would bring more punishment, and swiftly. But MacReady’s skin itched for the kiss of the crop and the satisfying sting of the flogger. He wanted to indulge himself, but he knew also that if he pushed things too far, his Master would simply get up and leave the room, and it was for him that he endured this teasing for. 

A pair of small, gloved hands parted his arse cheeks, and he squirmed at the sensation of cold lubricant against his heated skin. A broader finger ran lightly up the crack of his arse, smearing lubricant over the bud of his asshole, and he arched his belly against the floor, wriggling his arse upward, welcoming that touch. One of the small, gloved hands left his arse, and then returned with a stinging clap that made him tense up in delight and alarm. 

“Look at you, you naughty boy,” his Master said, stroking his chin again with the pointed toe of his boot, “so eager.”

Strong fingers spread him carefully, slicked him up with more lubricant, and he sucked in a long breath, held it as those fingers probed him slowly and gently, opening him up with just enough roughness that his arsehole burned from the stretch. It was easy, so easy to just let go, and he kissed his Master’s boot gratefully, shuddered against his bonds and groaned as those fingers rubbed at the sensitive bump of his prostate. A sweet ache spread and rippled through the pit of his belly and he ground himself reflexively against the pillow beneath his hips, only to earn another quick slap for his efforts. 

“Be patient,” his Master told him, and that foot lifted off his cheek to press down on the crown of his head instead, pushing his face down against the polished wooden floor. Those wonderful fingers pulled back, and then slid further into him, and he could only whimper against the waxed wood, keening as his prostate was teased and ignored alternately. 

A small, clever hand reached beneath his hip, sliding gloved and squeaking between his skin and the latex stretched over the pillow, to give his aching cock a long, slow pull. This was enough to make him tense up again against the leather and wood and steel of his restraints. Chain links clinked and then squeaked nearly soundlessly as MacReady’s muscles strained, sweat running off his skin to puddle slick beneath him on the floor. His Master’s foot ground tenderly against his scalp, the stacked leather heel of the boot digging into his flesh, and the pain grounded MacReady, helped him keep his focus against the fuzz of pleasure filling his every vein and artery. 

The boot left his scalp, returned to lightly caressing the unscarred side of MacReady’s face, smooth warm leather whispering against the orbit of his eye, and along his cheekbone. Behind him there was a soft murmur, a quiet “I think he’s ready,” in a low voice. The reply was slightly higher, harder for MacReady to catch with ears abused from years of gun reports and IED detonations. Both sets of gloved hands left their positions abruptly afterwards, leaving his arsehole empty and his cock bereft, and he shivered, focusing again on his Master’s foot, against his face, the pointed toe of the boot lingering under his chin, tipping his face upward.

It ached to turn his head upwards, as it had before, his neck stretching to the limits of its articulation. The movement strained against the collar buckled around his neck, made the metal clip of the leash tinkle as it swung against the D-ring, a music felt more than heard as his Master rewarded him with another “Good boy.” Macready watched as his Master’s feet shifted, listened to the tap of a cane against the wooden flooring as his Master climbed to his feet, and then knelt down beside his head to caress him, as though he were little more than a loyal hound. And why not? It was in essence what he had done for most of his career, a familiar and comfortable thing for him to be, a tool to be wielded. 

It was the easiest thing on earth to have orders, to carry them out even if he disagreed with them, and that certainty was something he craved in this uncertain world of policy. Kenneled behind a desk, he found himself turning to destructive habits, like a working dog left alone too long. This, then, was therapy of a sort, albeit of the variety one did not discuss in professional psychiatric assessments. 

It wasn’t as though any of the operators at work maintained any illusions about MacReady’s personal life. He had gone to work marked by the lash and flogger, bruised in the elaborate criss-crossing lines of kinbaku, but anyone who had caught a glimpse while he had changed from suit to tacgear or back again had simply been too discreet to say anything. 

MacReady pressed his brow to one wool-clad thigh, let out a murmur of contentment as strong fingers ran through his sweat-damp hair, fingernails scratching lightly against his scalp. He was so keyed up with adrenaline and endorphins that each touch felt like a tectonic event, echoing along the twisted silver paths of his nerves in a whole-body vibration that soothed and aroused him further. 

Here MacReady could truly let go, be used and taken care of. It was okay to hurt here, to yelp at it and weep and shed the glib, cynical mask he wore everywhere else. Small strong hands took hold of his hips as someone else checked his circulation again, slipped a finger between the collar and his neck to make sure he still had room to breathe; that his throat had not swollen from friction or bruising to cut his air off. MacReady felt his Master’s fingers closing possessively around a fistful of hair, his other hand cradling his chin roughly, and then there was a moment of cold shock as something very thick and quite cold began to push at his arsehole. He sucked in another deep breath, tried to relax into it, but it hurt unexpectedly, hard and raw and icy as it jolted up his spine. 

In response he shuddered, flinched and keened, genuine tears stinging in his eyes, and he bit down on reflex against the hurt, catching soft flesh and hard bone between his teeth. “Enough —“ he heard his Master bark, “stop,” and the pushing did. MacReady realized that he was panting in pain, his sides heaving as the pushing stopped, and then the collar was being tugged upwards, pressing across his trachea as the toy slid out of him. He fought for air, writhed against his bonds, and then received a merciless slap across his abused arse in return. 

“The muzzle, please,” MacReady’s Master said, loosening his grip on the collar for just a moment. MacReady gasped for air in that moment, sucked a grateful lungful in, and then felt the tugging again as his Master hauled up on the collar again. The reprieve had been brief, and MacReady’s vision, already blurry from tears, began to fade at the edges as his chest burned for oxygen. 

Careful hands held a metal and leather contraption up to his face, buckled the straps securely while he was too air-starved to resist much, and he felt his tears puddling warm against the cool metal that pressed into his face, running over the brightly-polished steel to splatter in fat drops on the hardwood floor beneath him. 

“We’ll go more slowly now,” his Master said, loosening his grip on the collar again. MacReady’s flanks heaved as he gulped another lungful of air in, and another, as the darkness on the edge of his vision began to dissolve. He was harder than he had been in recent memory, pent up enough to hurt, and he would have whined at the friction as someone rearranged his hips on top of the pillow, tilting them higher for access, except that he was still too busy trying to breathe. 

Instead he managed a long wheeze of breath, a shivery moan on the exhale as someone applied more lubricant, cool and soothing, to his arsehole, probed him gently with a finger to make sure he hadn’t been seriously hurt by the previous attempt. 

“He’s not bleeding,” a low voice said, and MacReady felt his Master nod, the movement telegraphed as his center of gravity shifted, to tense the muscles of his thigh under the wool flannel of his trousers. “You go first,” his Master said. A rough hand found the top of MacReady’s head again, running softly through his hair, and he began to relax again into pliant submission.

That relaxation ended when the many stinging ends of a flogger snapped against the skin on the back of MacReady’s thigh. He had barely tensed up in response to the first blow when a second landed across his arse, a stray lash leaving a trail of fire on the sensitive skin of his balls. That drew a yelp from him, and more tears, but his Master closed his fingers on MacReady’s hair again, and that hurt steadied him, let him focus on something other than the itching bite of those fresh welts blossoming across his flesh. 

The flogging seemed to go on forever, the pain and the endorphins in his system ringing in his ears, making his tear-blurred vision fog out, but his Master’s hand was always there on his head, reassuring, comforting, grounding. “You didn’t mean to bite, did you?” MacReady’s master asked, between strokes of the flogger, “You just panicked.” 

“Please,” MacReady said in a soft moan, “please,” unsure entirely what he was begging for. It was as though his skin were too tight to hold all the sensations filling his body; something had to give. Each crack and thud of the flogger made him twitch and jerk against his restraints, and the movement ground the underside of his cock against the pillow underneath his hips, but neither was enough to satisfy him. It was exquisite torture, untenable, and he could feel himself starting to drift away into that safe space in the back of his head, the place he’d built during resistance-to-interrogation training where he could just sit and watch things being done to him without actually having to feel them. 

“No,” his Master said, his voice stern but gentle, “no, darling. You’re staying with me for just a little longer.” Those strong fingers twisted at his hair, tugged hard enough to make his scalp scream, and the fresh hurt was something he could focus on. He took a deep breath and willed himself back within the boundaries of his skin. MacReady’s nerves were thrumming with pleasure and pain, his mind alert, blazing like a bonfire with a guy thrown upon it. He had never been so alive as now — not even the exhilaration of jumping out of a VTOL matched this. 

“You’re a big, strong beast,” MacReady’s master continued. He drew a crisp linen handkerchief out of a pocket, dabbed at the sweat and tears around MacReady’s eyes with it. “You can take this. You can take far more.” 

“Yes,” MacReady found himself saying in desperate agreement. He could, and if he couldn’t, then he would make himself do it. 

“Good boy,” his Master said again, softly approving, and MacReady was content to press his muzzled face against that wool-clad thigh, to close his eyes and be coaxed along this knife-edge of overwhelming sensation. 

The flogging ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving MacReady sagging in his restraints, his body echoing to the utter absence of hurt. His ears rang, as though the pain had been a sound, grinding loud and incessantly in the room. His head was reeling, the world unstable around him, and he hadn’t the strength to fight or resist when rough hands grasped his hips again. He felt something probing at his arsehole, the sensation slick, almost lost in the tingle of his tender arse, and found himself tensing in reflex. That slight movement provoked aftershocks of pain in his thighs and arse and lower back, and he gasped and gasped again as someone pushed smoothly into him. The slap of their skin against his set his nerve-endings alight again, and the sweet ache of his prostate began to well up within him, filling the sensory void left behind post-flogging, as the worst of the pain had begun to recede. 

Whoever was fucking MacReady was doing it hard, without restraint, and he shivered and savored the growing urgency in the rhythm of their thrusts, in how deep and hard they were driving their cock into him. He usually needed more stimulation than this to come, usually liked either to toss himself off or receive a reach-around in more casual situations, but it was still good to be fucked lax and open and left well-used, buzzing inwardly with sweet friction. The residual pleasure from a good, hard fuck like this only made his climax more intense, whether he spent himself in his own slippery fist after, or in his partner’s eager mouth. 

MacReady’s head felt loose on his neck despite the pain and the restraints. He was growing drunk on endorphins, and he could sense his Master’s increasing arousal at the sight of him being used like this. He turned his head to the side, caught a glimpse of his Master’s cock tenting the fly of his trousers, and he rubbed his muzzled face clumsily against it, eliciting a brief, uncontrolled shiver. In response his Master seized the back of his collar again, pulling upwards to choke him. “Not yet,” his Master said, “be patient.” MacReady would have assented, but he could not, not with his air cut off like this. 

In the absence of breath his senses seemed to sharpen. Time slowed subjectively as his body fought for air, and he could hear through the ringing in his ears the panting of the person who was fucking him, their grunts of pleasure and satisfaction, and he marveled briefly, almost detachedly at how desirable he was in this moment, trussed and bound, his face half-masked by the muzzle. He almost never felt this wanted on his own, could only really believe it when he was being used like this. 

As though reading his mind his Master loosened his grip on the collar to let him breathe, murmured softly to him as he sucked in a great wet gulp of air. “Look at you,” his Master said, “my beautiful beast. You do want to be a good boy, so much.”

“Yes,” MacReady managed to wheeze, before he sucked in another greedy breath, “I just want to —” he tried to continue, but he had not fully regained the ability to speak before the collar dug into his trachea again. The thrusts were so hard now, slapping against his bruised and tender arse, and his abused flesh responded with a rising jag of pain dragging across his nerves like a thumbnail on a guitar string. 

“I know,” his Master said, “you’re my brave, bold beast.” He loosened his grip on the collar again, and dabbed softly at MacReady’s brow with the damp linen handkerchief. There was a gasp behind him as the person fucking MacReady shuddered, went very still, and then they were driving themselves up and up into him, pushing past pleasure into a perfect kind of pain that made MacReady’s cock twitch eagerly against the pillow it was pressed up against. This was what he liked the most, when he was being fucked; to be able to pleasure someone, to give them what they wanted and feel needed in return. 

MacReady waited for more pain, more pleasure, anything else to happen to him, but nothing did. He felt his partner pull out of him, heard their soft hiss as they did so, and then was left to his own devices for a score of heartbeats, maybe more, with his face pressed against his Master’s lap. “Duncan,” his Master said, and with the invocation of his first name came a certain relief that recast them as Duncan and Jim in this very private moment, “how are you feeling?” This was it then, the agreed-on wellness check that marked the midpoint of this scene. 

How strange, MacReady thought — it felt as though he had been here in this place forever. He closed his eyes and probed mentally at his body for a moment, registered the agony in shoulders and calves from being hog-tied this long, the thirst that was pushing its way to the forefront of his sensorium. “I’m thirsty,” he said, his voice oddly distant in his ears, “and I don’t know if I can hold this position for much longer.”

“Not the fun kind of pain, is it, love?” Jim Miller asked him, and he nodded once, wearily. “Do you still want to continue with the rest of the scene?”

“Yes,” MacReady said, opening his eyes again, “just maybe restrained differently.” Miller planted a soft, brief kiss on his brow and nodded to the other two participants in this scene. “On his back, perhaps?” Miller suggested. There was a soft rattling of chains as one of the dominants, having disposed of the condom he had worn while fucking MacReady, unlocked MacReady’s wrist restraints. Both the dominants lowered his arms and ankles gently to the floor, and rubbed at his wrists to stimulate his blood circulation, before they rolled him gently over, so he was facing up. 

Miller took MacReady’s sweaty head in his lap and held a straw to his face, and MacReady turned his head to take it in his mouth, sipped gratefully at the electrolyte drink in the covered cup as the other dominant unfastened the spreader bar holding his ankles apart. MacReady’s abused arse blazed in contact with the movement, his skin sticking to the floor. His fresh bruises and welts throbbed in time with his heartbeat as the domme ran her gloved hands up his calves, massaging him to make sure no permanent harm had been done with the restraints. 

“How do you want to do this now?” she asked Miller, who continued holding the cup for MacReady until he had drained it, the straw sucking at dregs and air with a wet, bubbling sound. 

“Hm,” Miller said thoughtfully, taking the cup away. “You could prop him up with the pillow under his hips,” he suggested, “bend his knees and cuff his wrists to his ankles. He won’t be able to fight much, that way, will you, love?”

“Certainly not, darling,” MacReady said, his voice no longer hoarse. The drink had quenched his thirst, revitalized him with a sensation that was neither pleasure nor pain, just a quiet wet relief in his throat and belly that helped settle his nerves. 

“I’ll hold his head in my lap,” Miller continued with a wicked smile, “then he can watch himself being fucked.”

“Very good,” she replied, with a wink, before she turned away to retrieve fresh restraints. Her scene partner returned to tuck the latex-wrapped pillow under his hips. MacReady lay limp and pliant as the dominant, taking the cuffs from his partner, began to truss him up again. 

“Are you ready to continue, then?” Miller asked MacReady, once he had been restrained again, and he nodded, tipped his muzzled face up to receive a gentle caress. “Yes, Master,” he said, returning to formula as he reclaimed his responsibilities as a submissive. They would only continue the scene if he wanted to continue, and would stop immediately if he ever used a safeword or failed to respond during check-ins. It was all in his hands, and this was their way of taking care of him. 

It was odd how much this made him feel loved and cared for, protected, and it was utter liberation from his daily responsibilities as a soldier, from the expectations his family had for him even before he had exited the womb. It wasn’t as though MacReady hated being who he was — but the machismo of his profession felt almost like a straitjacket sometimes. 

One of the dominants — the man — put on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves and proceeded to slide a lubricant applicator up MacReady’s arse. The lube felt shockingly cold against the warmth of his body, and he shivered, arched futilely upwards as his cock twitched, the 8-gauge barbell in his apadravya piercing catching the overhead light. 

“So impatient, my beast” his Master said, smiling softly in approval. Strong fingers locked in the straps of the muzzle buckled around his head, tilting him forward so he would have to see what came next, which was the domme securing a very large dildo in the O-ring of the harness she wore around her hips. That was the toy they had tried on MacReady earlier, that had been too much for him, and he felt a pang of anxiety jangle in his gut as she began to slick the dildo’s pronounced head with yet more lubricant. 

“I know you can take it,” MacReady’s Master said, and he sucked a long breath through his nose, tried to force his body to relax as the domme knelt between his knees. Her partner cupped MacReady’s balls gently, pushed them out of the way as she lined the toy up with his exposed arsehole and began to push. 

There was less pain this time as she slid the head of the toy into MacReady. He had been fucked open, left lax and loose by her partner, and it was easier to take the considerable girth of the dildo this time. He gasped at the sudden cold of the toy against his innermost membranes, and then groaned aloud as the dildo’s fat head caught at his prostate, dragging sweetly against sensitive nerve endings as she continued to slide the toy into him. 

“Fuck,” MacReady managed to say, “oh, _fuck_.” The dildo’s slick glide seemed to go on forever, the cold silicone driving further and further into him, until the domme’s hips were right against the vulnerable flesh of MacReady’s inner thighs. 

“Look at you,” MacReady’s Master said, his voice warm, appreciative. “Look at you taking all of that. I knew you could.”

“It’s so much,” MacReady gasped, as she began to slide the toy out of him, “so good.” Her next thrust wrung a yelp out of him, his cock bobbing with the movement as she ground the head of the dildo against his prostate again, and then he whimpered when her partner applied a crop to his chest, leaving a line of fire across his pectoral muscle. He wanted to turn his head, to thrash against his restraints, but they held him fast, and his Master continued to hold his head firmly. There was no relief in movement. The only way out was to endure. 

“Do you think you could come for her?” MacReady’s Master whispered, the words soft against his ears between the whippy crack of the crop on his belly, his upper arms, his nipples. There was so much pain and pleasure, bliss and hurt filling MacReady’s world again. MacReady let himself go entirely in this sweet assault upon his senses — he relinquished caution and awareness and duty and gave himself over to the pyre of his skin, the utter bliss of his arsehole being stretched and crammed full with this much cock. 

He gasped and whined and shivered under the dominants’ ministrations, his self reduced to nerves glowing white-hot from the crop, the bruises on his arse and thighs throbbing in time with the ache in his cock and prostate, and he was panting, hard and high, arching despite himself into each thrust as his Master caressed his sweat-soaked hair and whispered reassuring encouragement in his ears. 

In this state MacReady lacked the presence of mind to hold back — nor was there any point in doing so. He was so hard that his cock was brushing his belly, leaving slick trails of pre-ejaculate on his skin, his balls tight, his scrotum tensing around them. The domme fucking him sensed his desperation, and she shortened her thrusts in response, focusing her efforts on using the sizeable head of the toy on the bump of his prostate. 

The effect was immediate, or almost so. MacReady tensed up and shuddered, pulling his restraints taut, and then let out a low, desperate groan as he came hard, his cock shooting thick ropes of spunk messily, copiously over the skin of his belly and chest with the long, aching spasms of his climax. His world collapsed in on itself, obliterated with white as his vision gave out. The chains clinked and then screeched as they constrained his movements, and his Master held his head steady, stroked the vulnerable underside of his jaw beneath the metal grate of the muzzle as he thrashed. 

That soft, gentle touch was soothing, grounding, and MacReady felt only the caress as everything else fell away into darkness and heat, punctuated only by the pounding of his pulse in his ears. 

Everything was quiet when MacReady came back to himself, slowly sensing his body in disjointed bits and pieces — the throb of his arse and thighs, the heat and pleasure lapping still at his loins, rising up his belly and spine to leave him limp, as though his bones had dissolved. The fresh pain of the crop on his chest stung and itched as it faded, and he grew aware that he was no longer restrained, that he had been unchained and left lying half-wrapped in a soft blanket, still on the hardwood floor. Even the collar around his neck was gone. 

“Thank you,” he heard his Master — no, Jim — saying. “I hope you had fun.”

“Oh, we did,” came the reply, “thank _you_ for inviting us.”

“Goodnight,” Jim said, and then the door to the room opened and shut, and they were alone. The tap of the walking stick began, a little distant, remote, then closer and closer in the ringing silence of his ears, and then Jim was sitting down on the floor beside MacReady. He put the stick down to his right and then lay down too, rolled over half onto the blanket to brush a careful hand over the welts on MacReady’s chest. 

The light touch sent the welts blazing brightly in a chorus of itch and pain, and MacReady shivered at it, smiled as he took his lover’s weight on his freshly-abused flesh. 

“It looks like you had fun,” Jim said, returning MacReady’s smile. 

“I did,” MacReady agreed. He was utterly relaxed, unwilling to move a finger or toe, the jags of anger and frustration in his head gone, melted away like butter on hot toast, and he thrummed still with endorphins in the drowsy afterglow. The world lapped softly around him like a warm tide. There was someone in the room who still needed tending to, however. MacReady could feel Jim’s cock hard against his thigh, and he grunted softly in satisfaction as his lover began to rut softly up against him, seeking relief. 

“Will you roll over for me now, darling?” Jim asked MacReady, his breathing growing heavy, his eyes dark with pent-up desire. “I’ve had to watch two people fuck you, tonight, and I don’t know if I can hold back any more.” 

“I would,” MacReady said, “except I don’t think I can feel my legs, right now. You’re going to have to do it for me.” 

“You lazy arse,” Jim laughed. He flipped the blanket aside and rolled MacReady over, let him rest his brow comfortably on his forearms before he continued. There was the cold kiss of lubricant on MacReady’s arsecrack again, fingers probing gently against his tender arsehole, but they slid easily into him; he hadn’t had the time to tense back up, yet. 

MacReady knew what to expect, next. There was the sound of a zipper opening behind him, and he kept his eyes closed and remained still as Jim adjusted his clothing to spring himself free. The slight roughness of wool flannel against his inner thighs, and the slippery feel of silk against their backs. Crisp cotton shirt-tails brushed against his lower back, and then Jim was sliding into him as though they had been made for each other. 

The penetration set MacReady’s nerve endings to jangling, and he hissed in overstimulation, whined in a surfeit of delight as Jim sank himself home, leaning down so that the wool of his roll-neck jumper pressed up against the skin of MacReady’s back. But even this overstimulation was good, was something he could bear with Jim’s weight holding him bonelessly down. The pressure against his flesh was reassuring, especially on his bruised arse, and the throb of the pain counterbalanced the sensitivity of his raw arse. 

“It was so hard to sit there and hold you,” Jim panted in MacReady’s ear, as he began to thrust fast and hard and desperate. “Just watching you take their cocks. I wanted to join in. Was it good to get fucked like that?” 

“Yes,” MacReady gasped, then flinched and mewed when Jim angled himself just right to tease his prostate. “Fuck,” he managed, when he found himself capable of speech at last, “_fuck_, Jim —“ 

“I love the way you arch up into it,” Jim continued, losing coherence as his hips began to stutter, “how needy you are, how — how —“ Jim shuddered then, and went very still, a stifled cry tearing its way out of his throat as he spilled himself deep in MacReady’s arsehole. MacReady groaned in satisfaction at the way Jim ground the shudders of his orgasm out against his arse, savored each greedy thrust, knowing that Jim had fucked him bare. He was the only man MacReady had trusted enough to let come inside him. 

They lay still, sated, together, as Jim caught his breath, and then he pushed himself off MacReady’s back with a soft sigh, trembling slightly from the effort, before he put his clothes back into order. And then he rolled MacReady gently over, taking his head in his lap again, and tucked the blanket over him. 

“This was good,” Jim said, reaching for the silver Thermos flask beside him. 

“Very,” MacReady said, still unable to string words coherently together. He was liquid, blissful, lyrical. There was no workplace, no outside world in this place, just the endorphins singing through his bloodstream and in the vault of his skull. 

Jim unscrewed the cup on top of the flask, unscrewed its stopper as well before he held it up to MacReady’s lips. “Have a sip. Don’t want you dehydrating on me.”

MacReady sipped, as ordered, as a puff of fragrant steam escaped the flask to caress his face, like breath. It was a good builders’ tea, strong, milky, very sweet; a staple of their aftercare sessions. The beverage sank soothingly to the pit of his belly, warming its way down his gullet, and he felt its reassuring heat from within. Jim made him take another sip, and then a third, before he took the flask away and screwed the top back on. 

MacReady was content to lie back and be cared for, and he smiled quietly at the rustle of foil, the dull snap of a block of chocolate being broken up in Jim’s strong hands. “Here,” he said, and MacReady opened his mouth automatically, let Jim place a piece of dark chocolate on his tongue. 

MacReady did not bother chewing on the sweet, only let it melt in the heat of his mouth, and when he swallowed he felt his energy returning somewhat, mustered the wit and strength to take Jim’s hand in his. “I don’t know how to even describe how much I needed this — how much I need you,” he said haltingly.

“And I don’t know if there are words to describe how much I need to take care of you, like this, because I love you,” Jim said. He leaned low and MacReady propped himself up on an elbow, lifted his head off Jim’s lap to kiss him, slow and soft and deliberate. It was good, so good each time, as though they rediscovered each other, found new facets of each other to love and treasure every time they did this. 

“Darling,” MacReady said, and then paused. There was nothing else to say, was there? 

“My love,” Jim replied, and MacReady closed his eyes again, let himself be cared for again tonight.


End file.
